The Trap

The client's hand is on my thigh, and Victor is going to kill him. "Come now, mademoiselle, just one more glass." Monsieur Dubois refills my wine before I can protest, his smile too wide, too familiar. "We must celebrate this partnership properly, non?" I'm already tipsy, the room tilting slightly at the edges, but refusing feels impossible. Not with Victor watching, not with the merger hanging in the balance, not when I'm supposed to be professional despite the toy nestled inside me, reminding me with every shift that I'm anything but. "Of course." I lift the glass with a smile that feels painted on. "To partnerships." Dubois leans closer, and his cologne—heavy, cloying—makes my stomach turn. "You know, Victor is very lucky to have such a beautiful assistant. If I worked with you every day, I would find it very... distracting." His hand squeezes my thigh through the gown's fabric, and the movement shifts the vibrator, sending an unwelcome jolt through my core. I freeze, trapped between arousal and disgust, between the need to stay professional and the desperate urge to slap his hand away. "Monsieur Dubois." Victor's voice cuts through the air like ice. "I believe Amelia mentioned she's had enough wine." "Ah, but the night is young!" Dubois doesn't move his hand. "Perhaps she would like to join me for a nightcap in the—" "She wouldn't." Victor stands, and suddenly he's between us, his body a wall of controlled fury. "And I think it's time we called it a night. The contract signing is early tomorrow. We all need rest." Dubois's smile falters, but he recovers quickly, withdrawing his hand with exaggerated innocence. "Of course, of course. Forgive me if I was too... enthusiastic. It is the French way, you understand." I don't understand. I understand that he touched me without permission, that he made me drink when I wanted to stop, that he thought my politeness was invitation. Victor's hand appears at my elbow, firm and steadying. "Come. I'll escort you to your room." The elevator ride is silent except for the soft jazz playing through hidden speakers and my thundering heartbeat. Victor stands rigid beside me, jaw clenched, radiating barely contained anger. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "I didn't mean to—" "You didn't do anything wrong." His voice is tight. "Dubois was out of line." "I should have refused the wine. Should have moved away when he—" "Yes." He turns to face me, and his eyes are storm-grey and intense. "You should have. As my secretary, you need to learn to appropriately refuse others and protect yourself. I won't always be there to intervene." The words sting despite their truth. Or maybe because of it. He's right—I was too afraid to embarrass him, too worried about the merger, too conditioned to please everyone except myself. "I understand." My voice is small. "Do you?" He steps closer, and the elevator suddenly feels impossibly small. "Because from where I'm standing, you looked terrified. And that's not acceptable. Not for anyone who works for me." His hand lifts, and for one insane moment I think he's going to touch my face. Instead, he reaches past me to press the button for my floor again. That's when the elevator lurches. The lights flicker. The soft jazz cuts off mid-note. And we stop moving, suspended somewhere between floors in perfect, suffocating silence. "Fuck." Victor pulls out his phone, but there's no signal. He presses the emergency call button. Static. Then nothing. We're trapped. My pulse kicks into overdrive, the wine and adrenaline and Victor's proximity creating a dangerous cocktail in my bloodstream. The elevator is small, forcing us close enough that I can see the tension in his shoulders, smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body. "They'll get us out soon," he says, but he sounds uncertain. "The hotel has backup systems." I nod, not trusting my voice. Every breath feels too loud in the confined space. Every movement of my body reminds me of the vibrator inside me, of V's promise not to activate it, of how vulnerable I am right now with Victor inches away and nowhere to escape. The silence stretches. "Amelia." Victor's voice is softer now. "Are you alright? You're shaking." "I'm fine. Just—the wine. And being trapped. I'm not great with small spaces." It's not entirely a lie. But the real reason I'm trembling has nothing to do with claustrophobia and everything to do with the man standing so close I can count his heartbeats. "Here." He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders. The gesture is kind, protective, and the warmth of it—both physical and emotional—makes my eyes sting with unexpected tears. "Thank you," I whisper. "I meant what I said earlier. You need to learn to protect yourself. But..." He pauses, and something shifts in his expression. "I'm glad I was there tonight. The thought of him touching you—" He doesn't finish the sentence, but the implication hangs heavy between us. That's when it happens. A low vibration starts deep inside me, so sudden and shocking that I gasp and stumble backward against the elevator wall. The toy comes to life with vicious intensity, pulsing in waves that steal my breath and make my knees buckle. No. No, no, no. He promised. V promised he wouldn't— But he is. The vibrations increase, cycling through patterns that make my core clench and my vision blur. I press my hand against the wall for support, trying desperately to stay upright, to keep my expression neutral, but it's impossible. "Amelia?" Victor's hands grip my shoulders. "What's wrong? Are you having a panic attack?" "I—" I can't form words. Can't think past the relentless pleasure building inside me, cresting higher with each pulse. "I just need—" My body goes limp, and Victor catches me, his arms coming around me to hold me upright. The contact is electric, his solid warmth against my trembling body, and it only makes everything worse—or better, I can't tell anymore. "You're burning up." His hand touches my forehead, then my neck, dangerously close to where the pearls rest. "And your pulse is racing. Should I call for medical—" "No!" The word comes out strangled. "I just—please, I need—" The vibrator pulses harder, and a whimper escapes my throat before I can stop it. Victor's eyes widen, his hands tightening on my arms, and I see the exact moment comprehension dawns. His gaze drops to where his jacket has fallen open, to the flush spreading down my chest, to the way my thighs are clenched together. To the truth I can't hide. "Amelia." His voice is rough, dangerous. "What's happening to you right now?" And I realize with horror and shameful excitement that he knows. He knows, and we're trapped together, and the vibrator shows no signs of stopping.